


Affections

by thepeskyunicorn



Series: THB fanwork week [3]
Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dakin has never been good at expressing affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affections

**Author's Note:**

> THB fanwork week - Day 3

Dakin has never been good at expressing affection.

Sure, he could spit critique and sarcasm, readily stinging at the tip of his tongue, small shrapnel of scathing retorts ready to injure those who dare hurt the ones he love. But the art of compliments and gratitude has never occurred naturally in him.

He has strings of poetry and prose memorized, beautiful sentences strung together by sentiments not foreign to him. Sometimes, when he feels the fondness welling in his chest, tangled in his trachea, unable to manifest themselves as words he so wants them to, he uses the readily available phrases he has stored.

But lately, the using of a dead poet as his mouthpiece has started to chafe and the element of artificiality has become an empty echo that resounds loud against him. Still, he hides it well, burying it beneath layers of carefully constructed confidence and quick wit. If he tries not to think too much into it, he could almost pretend the words are his.

But when it comes to tender moments, the facade will always fall, like a lover's clothes pooled around his body, a one night stand in the cold light of day, naked and oh so vulnerable.

Irwin, on the other hand, has always been freer with his words. They still carries heat that he would never have courage to imitate, but countless observations on Dakin's openness, covered in a thin veneer of cockiness, has taught him the value of letting the truth bleed into your words, even if Dakin himself has yet to caught on. Irwin is still cautious, preferring to hide behind his mouth, but now he only reserves the holding back of thoughts for strangers and enemies.

Dakin's 'affliction' is something he's always been sensitive to, the way the other man seem to curl in on himself while simultaneously trying to give as much as he gets. And where Dakin's words refuse to fulfill the deed, Irwin is more than willing to make up for it. 

It starts off with the post-it notes peppered around the house. Messages, scrawled on the fly in his messy slant commenting on inane matters and tucked between the lines, hidden gems of compliments and encouragement, subtle and short. Offhand remarks are made regarding the many endearing traits of Dakin. And as Dakin will later describe as his favourite, he would indulge in soft whispers regarding the degree of his love against the shell of Dakin's ear when they are pressed together, glasses fogging and bodies stripped bear, so close that they are one. He is never stingy with his sentiments, and with the nebulous unspooling of tension and physical boundaries between them came the increase in their frequency.

It makes Dakin feel a little guilty that he could not reciprocate, but mostly he is willing to soak it all up, hoarding the memories greedily, turning it over in his head in a countless roil that it is a wonder that they haven't turned grey.

The decision to try to give back a little of what he received therefore, is not an entirely surprising thing to him.

It’s silly, really, the amount of planning he has done beforehand, conjuring up situations and combination of words, knowing with dreaded surety that nothing he says could ever possibly be as poetic as half the things Irwin has ever said or written to him. The realisation that he is still using the bank of phrases in his head agonised him, but finally, after repeated attempts in achieving originality, he settles on the simplest way. He hopes it will be enough.

Watching Irwin set the table for breakfast, Dakin clutches the back if the chair in a death grip and steadies himself, feeling like he's twelve again, before he could have hid under the cloak of his sprezzatura, before his voice stopped cracking at the edges. He focuses on the dark wood of the chair instead, mind curiously blank.

Irwin finishes plating the toast and sets it down, cocking his head in Dakin's direction. 'You're tense.'

'I'm always tense.' The infantile jibe makes him wince. This is not going the way he wants it to.

Irwin shrugs, familiar with the way Dakin operates. It still takes him by surprise sometimes, just how young Dakin seems, and it's back to Cutler's all over again, with worldviews half formed and confused desires percolating in him.

Ever the worrier, Irwin still prefers not to probe, a testament to how long he has lived with and gotten used to Dakin's mannerisms. Whatever it is that is bugging him would probably stew for a few moments and come spilling out when Dakin's ready. Sitting down and busying himself with tea, Irwin still deigns to keep half an eye on Dakin, just in case. As long as the man doesn't start foaming at the mouth, he'll be fine.

Taking a deep breath, Dakin releases his hold on the chair, distracting himself with the food laid out. Irwin has been experimenting again, and the frittata on the table, coupled with the much more homely bread and butter makes him smile, the unexpected domesticity of the situation calming his nerves and filling his chest with familiar fondness. He pulls out his chair, sits down, took another deep breath and-

'I love you.'

Irwin froze, hands mid-air, still in the middle of buttering his toast. The look on his face is one caught between an unattractive mix of surprise and disbelief and Dakin has the sudden, irrepressible urge to laugh. 

Irwin gently sets the toast down, never breaking eye contact, reaching over to tangle their fingers. 'Say it again,' he whispers hoarsely, his hand starting a slow rub across their joined fingers.

Instead, Dakin gives more, half standing, half leaning, and pressing a soft kiss at the side of Irwin's mouth, reveling yet cautious of the fragility of the situation. "I love you," he murmurs , huffing at soft laugh at Irwin's small noise of elation 'I love you, I love you, I love you."

He recognizes the awestruck look on the other man's face as he sat back down; it must be something he wears often. Seeing the reversal of roles is immensely gratifying; half forgotten sonnets and passionate declaration of admiration memorized lay abandoned at the back of his mind as he bends his head to capture Irwin's lips in his, their smiles making it hard to work around.

Much later, as they are lying in bed, sweat slicked and still panting, Dakin reflects on the nature of affections and his foray in the gifting of them.

It might not be much, but it's a start, and he doesn't intend to stop.


End file.
